


An Unimaginable Eternity

by QueenBuzzle



Series: Insomnia Sweets [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, insomnia sweets, kind of disjointed, name change for harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBuzzle/pseuds/QueenBuzzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{The airplanes looked grotesque through the film of magnifying tears: all arched and blurry. They were folded in a way that Alaska touched Zimbabwe and Dean wondered if distance in the real world could be folded so easily—if the realms of Heaven, Earth, and Hell could be crunched so that he could just swoop in and save his brothers himself.}</p><p>Death gives Dean an ultimatum: bring him something he's interested in and he'll bring both Sam and Adam out of the Pit.<br/>Luckily Dean's somewhat-boyfriend is the Master of Death.</p><p>{It's too early for his heart to hurt this badly.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unimaginable Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> A second piece for the Insomnia Sweets 'verse! Not as good as the first one but hey I needed to drag Sam and Adam's sorry arses out of the Pit. :)
> 
> Sorry it took so long, I was planning on something different but I liked this way better. + I had zero inspiration :T

_An Unimaginable Eternity_

One year.

How much difference can one year make? Dean rubbed the spot on his chest where his tattoo was, grimacing like he had heartburn and wobbling on the spot. It was fuck-all-o'clock, the sun not quite making its first appearance, and he'd driven all night knowing that he'd show up _here_ of all places.

Knowing that, despite the whole eleven months they'd been apart, despite how Dean's appearance would likely frighten him, Jem Whitmore's door—and arms—would be open.

Perhaps it was an assumption more than anything. They weren't actually a _thing,_ after all—one sloppy kiss and some whispered secrets didn't make them an item...but Dean thought he could count on Jem to be predictable.

Insomnia Sweets Cafe and Bakery was just as sunny yellow as it had been last September. The signs were new—he'd redone the title in hot pink, and instead of boasting cider and pumpkin pie the old-fashioned signs said “Ice Cold Strawberry Tea!” and “Muffin Mondays: 4 Muffins For A Dollar!” and even “Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream”. What looked like a small cherry blossom tree had been planted in the grass out front, and there were planters of—um, _weeds?—_ in the windowsills.

But the “ _Closed :(“_ sign still didn't mean anything, and Dean pushed his way through, listening to the bell tinkle quietly. He didn't know what he would have done if Jem's car hadn't been parked out front, signaling the man was in the shop despite the early hour.

The inside was just as relaxing as it always had been—dark painted galaxies on the ceiling and the walls, the parallel planets hanging from the ceiling, cozy armchairs surrounding disproportionate tables. There were new decorations, too. A fleet of paper airplanes folded out of maps encircled the solar system, rustling quietly in the breeze made by the door. In the far corner a puffy cotton storm cloud dripped red paper raindrops. Each table had a vase with a single, rainbow-colored lily.

“Sir?”

Dean glanced up to see a teen in an _Insomnia Sweets_ hoodie looking at him with apprehension. He seemed to be setting the timers on the ovens and putting new wax paper on the pans in the cooling rack.

“Is Jem up?” Dean asked, instead of answering. “Tell him Dean's here.”

“Um...okay,” the teen shrugged, glancing over Dean's shoulder at the door. “Usually we d—”

“Don't open till nine, yeah yeah, I'm not here for food.”

Actually Jem's cider sounded pretty good right now, but Dean had a feeling that was a seasonal product.

The boy disappeared around back. He must have just arrived because he was still pretty clean—Dean hadn't ever seen any of the Insomnia Sweets small crew as clean as that kid.

As Dean pondered this, he didn't notice Jem rushing from the kitchen, peering around anxiously.

“ _Dean!_ ”

There was flour all up in Jem's messy black hair, down his front and pooling on his shoes.

He'd never looked more gorgeous.

“God, Jem,” Dean gasped, eyes fluttering. When he opened them they were covered in a glossy sheen of tears, and he looked to the ceiling in an attempt to curb his emotions.

The airplanes looked grotesque through the film of magnifying tears: all arched and blurry. They were folded in a way that Alaska touched Zimbabwe and Dean wondered if distance in the real world could be folded so easily—if the realms of Heaven, Earth, and Hell could be crunched so that he could just swoop in and save his brothers himself.

It was too early for this.

It was too early for his heart to hurt so badly.

Jem seemed to have no such qualms, practically jumping over the register counter and crashing into Dean, who barely kept them upright. It had been that kind of week.

Well—it had been that kind of _year,_ really.

He let out a short little breath, arms wrapping tightly around Jem. Swallowing, he wanted nothing more than to bury his nose in the shorter man's hair and breathe in that scent of _Jem—_ but he knew that it would only send him into a coughing fit, and flour was probably not good for his lungs anyway.

“God I missed you,” he said, instead.

“C'mon,” Jem muttered, looking Dean up and down worriedly. “I don't like the way you're looking, Dean.”

Jem led them to a table in the back, far from the counter. Dean practically collapsed in the overstuffed chair offered to him, watching Jem curl up.

“You look like you've been sleeping better,” he commented quietly.

Jem nodded slowly. “You don't,” he responded. “Did you drive all night?”

“I needed to see you,” Dean shrugged, looking away.

“After eleven months you couldn't wait one more night?” Jem grumbled, but he seemed a bit flushed. “Dean...what happened?”

Right. There was a reason he'd came. Dean's eyes swam again and the tears finally bubbled over his cheeks. When was the last time he'd cried? It didn't matter—he wiped at them angrily, imagining them as red pins mapping out his weaknesses.

It was too early for weaknesses.

Jem looked alarmed. Dean felt vaguely guilty for that, but he couldn't help himself.

All of the sudden there were arms wrapped around him, hands in his hair, soothing and petting. Jem was practically in Dean's lap, just murmuring reassuring little words at him. Dean's eyes tracked a little as he tried to remember when Jem moved.

Maybe he did need a bit of sleep.

Dean tugged the smaller body the rest of the way onto his, letting Jem squirm into a different position. When the other body went still, Dean allowed himself to speak.

“I had a brother. _Have_ a brother. Two brothers. They're not—well, they're not dead. But they're not alive.”

Jem nodded against Dean's chest. “I'm sorry. That must be really difficult, Dean. So, what's going on? Were they in an accident or something, do they need medicine?”

Dean shook his head quickly. “No. It's a really, really long story Jem, and it won't make sense in parts.”

Jem pulled away and looked at Dean seriously, his eyes wide and firm. “I have time, if you want to tell it.”

And gods, Dean wanted to tell it.

 

He told Jem everything. About Michael and Lucifer, about the Apocalypse that didn't happen, about how Sam was fated to be Lucifer's vessel just as Dean had been fated to be Michael's. About how John Winchester screwed things up by having a third son.

He told Jem that Sam was two people living in one body: he was the demon-boy who lusted for death and destruction and vengeance just as much as he was the sweet, sincere man who wanted nothing more than to kill the demon-boy. He said that there was one thing Sam knew he could do, and he did it.

He jumped. He grabbed Michael-Adam and jumped into the pit.

Dean told Jem that Lucifer-Sam and Michael-Adam had been in the pit for almost fifteen months. That, even if he did find a way to pull them out, they would be broken and _different_ and not his Sam and Adam anymore.

He wanted his Sam and Adam. He wanted that more than anything, but he knew logically that he couldn't have that. He could have Sam-Lucifer and Adam-Michael or he could have nothing.

Well—the nothing part was certainly looking to be true.

In fact that was why he showed up here, half-asleep and crying like a child. It'd been a long, long year of research and doing things he didn't want to do to get money to continue his research—but it had all fallen through in the end. The damned Latin translator had _promised_ the binding ritual would work, as long as Dean was dead. _He was dead and it didn't_ work _!_

_“Choose one. Sam...or Adam. As a rule, I do not bring people back. I might make an exception once, but never twice.”_

Dean's lip trembled and he squeezed Jem a bit too tightly. Other than a mild squeak, the smaller man didn't protest.

How do you choose between the brother you've known your whole life and the boy you've only just met? How do you choose between sleepy smiles shared between Hunts and handshake-hugs given whenever you have time to meet?

It just wasn't  _fair_ to Dean. Life in general wasn't fair to Dean, though, but he'd thought he had gotten used to that by now. 

Anyways—Adam was just a kid. 17 now, or he would be if he was on Earth. He hadn't even graduated High School yet, and he was stuck in the pit doing 40 to Life with Michael and Lucifer-Sam.

There was a long stretch of silence—and a heavy sense of relief—after Dean finished telling the lengthy story.

He didn't even know he'd needed to share, and here Jem was, soaking up some of his life-given burdens by only lending a listening ear.

“And the worst thing is that Death even gave me a chance to get one of them out. Now the only way to get either of them out is to get him something he wants!” he finished, wiping his eyes angrily. He'd been through a lot more with a lot less emotion.

 

Jem was in a state of shock.

Honestly how was he supposed to feel when his sort-of boyfriend had just told him he has two not-dead-dead brothers possessed by two very real angels stuck in the pits of hell, and that the only way to get them out was to give Death something he wanted?

It'd been a really long (read: difficult) year for him. For a while, he was Harry again, a lost little boy tumbling about on medication trying to find a niche between Zombie and Person, so thin and so sickly that he'd had to close down his pride and joy. It'd gotten so bad that Hermione and Ron had threatened to drag him back to where they could keep an eye on him.

He didn't want to be that _boy_ anymore. He wanted to be Jem Whitmore—healthy only slightly insomniatic owner of the mysterious, cozy cafe on the outskirts of Mt. Searing. So he stopped seeing his therapist and he stopped talking to his friends and he stopped taking his medication.

And he was _okay._ Really, he was. He was sleeping more and eating better and that was what counted as “okay” in his books.

And now the one person he'd wanted to see all year was back, sitting in his cafe and crying. Hunters weren't supposed to cry but for some reason it only made Jem like Dean even more, heart thumping sullenly to the pattern Dean's tears wrote across his face.

If that was wrong, Jem didn't want to know what right was.

And the worst thing—as Dean had put it—was that Jem _knew._ He knew that, despite knowing Dean for only several days and then having let the man disappear for a year on him, he _knew_ that he'd do everything to help him.

There was only three things Jem knew would interest Death, and for all that the old bat knew, Dean had no way of getting to any of them. They were, after all, Wizarding artifacts, and Dean was a Hunter.

A Cloak. A Wand. A Stone.

Three pieces of Death given up years ago on a whim, regretted ever since. All three together could make one Master of Death.

Jem had no inclination to be Master of Death. It hardly got him any perks, save an extended lifetime.

And it wasn't like the Elder Wand had ever brought anyone any happiness, either. It'd been death and destruction from the very beginning.

Still—he wasn't so keen on giving up the Stone. The one thing that had ever allowed him to speak to his parents.

The one thing that gave him a _connection_ now that he'd forgone their gift of his name.

Harry James Potter was the one thing they'd given him (for they hadn't given him the Cloak, Dumbledore had) that he'd always had. Now he didn't even have that.

But he was a bleeding heart, truly and forever. He removed himself from Dean's arms, standing and pacing.

The Stone or Dean's brother?

And fuck it all, but a living person was always going to be more important than a dead one.

“Dean...this is going to be hard to believe, but _I_ have something that Death wants.”

 

Jem made Dean sleep.

Dean didn't want to sleep, and he said as much, but Jem didn't care. Sleep was important, Jem said, and Dean called him out on his hypocritical tendencies and they had their first argument.

Dean had never had a make-up kiss, but they were _definitely_ worth the trouble.

He laid himself out on the bed Jem provided—soft and covered in too many pillows and blankets, but it smelled like _Jem_ and it wasn't in some seedy motel on the side of a highway for once. It was almost hard to believe that, when he woke up, he'd be able to get his brothers back.

He'd have Sam and Adam, and the only person he had to thank was Jem.

 

Bobby's house was where he chose for the summoning ceremony, but it turned out that they didn't need it. Bobby had only just begun the chant when Death appeared, shocked and angry.

“Where did you get those?”

Dean glanced down at his hands, then back up at Death. The Wand was still and cold, almost as cold as the Stone.

“A friend,” Dean responded, smiling.

“It was a rhetorical question,” Death said, softly. “You assume I do not know exactly where they were. I meant _how_ did you get them, but even that is inconsequential. You will have your brothers, Dean Winchester. And I will have my freedom.”

Death's form glitched and disappeared, and suddenly Dean's hands were empty.

“Son of a _bitch_!” he cursed, punching at the air and pacing. He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head, irritated.

Maybe it was better this way, he rationalized with himself, kicking Bobby's old leather chair. Sam and Adam had been in the Pit for over a year now—the equivalent in Hell Time was...well, it was unimaginable. It would have felt like eternity, and who knew how bad of shape they were in at the moment. Still—it would have been better for Dean to get them out and let them die than to keep them down there, alive, for who-knows-how-long.

But when dealing with Death, you always get burnt. How ironic.

“Dean...”

Bobby's hand was on Dean's shoulder. Dean glanced up, tears blurring his eyes, to see his friend (a word that could not encompass properly just how much Bobby meant to Dean) was staring at something behind him.

There was a small splutter. Dean's heart beat wildly and he turned, half expecting this to be a lie.

Where Death had previously stood, two battered young men—looking worse for wear but altogether _whole—_ stood, swaying unsteadily. The taller of the two was holding the shorter up, arm around his waist, but they looked to be mutually supporting each other.

“Dean,” Sam muttered.

“Sam,” he choked, starting forward. Breathing deeply, he smiled. “Welcome back to the land of the living, big guy. Let's get you two laid down, alright?”

 

Eleven. That's how many months it took for Dean to come back into his life.

One.

That's how many days it took for Dean to disappear, silently and with only a single nod of recognition (or maybe respect), carrying two of Harry Potter's most prized possessions.

 _Good thing I'm not Harry anymore,_ Jem thought, looking down at the floor. His face was slack and just a little pale, but that generally comes with lack of sleep.

His thumb moved over to touch the area on his ring finger where the Stone would have rested had it still been a ring. There, undisturbed, was a tiny Deathly Hallows tattoo, a permanent reminder of his old self.

_Good thing I don't have to be him to survive. Not anymore._

 


End file.
